


the only bike in night vale

by writevale



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, all he wants is a backie, carlos the scientist learns how to flirt, how is a scientist meant to resist that?, it's the only bike in the whole of town, you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 18:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21184028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: Cecil Palmer owns the only bike in Night Vale. That isveryscientifically interesting.





	the only bike in night vale

**Author's Note:**

> There now exists podfic for this story (courtesy of the lovely [treeprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeprince/pseuds/treeprince)) which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436087) if you'd like the pleasure of listening along!

Mark's hand reaches out for the A/C dial and then collapses with a slap on their thigh as they realises it's already turned up to full blast. Carlos watches this in his peripheral vision as he gently nudges the gas to ease the car forward. He wishes Mark wouldn't mess with the settings in his car, but he can sympathise. There had been no shade along the street by the Desert Creek Housing Development and the car had transformed from a hybrid coupe to a hybrid oven. Carlos keeps his eyes on the road, but his mind is mostly pondering the exact specification and function of a hybrid oven.

It is far too hot to talk, but Mark manages it anyway. 'Oh my God.' They breathe into the stale, recirculating air. 'What a crazy bastard.' From what Carlos can tell, they're looking at something in the wing mirror, a rapidly approaching and brightly coloured shape. Carlos almost throws the car and its passengers into an emergency stop. They are in Night Vale, a rapidly approaching and brightly coloured shape could be _anything _and it might not want to be friends. Then Mark continues, 'Who would want to ride a bike in the desert?' 

'You're joking?' Mishti cranes her neck to peer out of the back window. 

The traffic slows momentarily and Carlos glances out of the passenger window just in time to see a figure speeding past. He sees their patterned leggings oscillate as they pedal, kaleidoscopic. The wind whips through their short blond hair. Their eyes are wild with exertion and focus. _Oh. _

Carlos snaps his gaze back to the road and does not watch as the figure, rather riskily, overtakes a tan corolla and disappears around a corner. 

_'_Crazy.' Mark reiterates finally.

'Anyone recognise them?' Mishti asks from the back, 'Maybe Night Vale residents don't have sweat glands.' Carlos is only partly sure that she’s joking. He reaches inside himself to put a firm hand on the wriggling thing in his stomach. The feeling fights back with the mental image of long legs and an untucked wisp of shirt flapping in the wind.

'That's, um, Cecil.' He says. A thick quiet falls in the car. The sound of the air conditioning is suddenly deafening. Carlos feels his cheeks heat as if he isn't already warm enough. 

'Oh.' Mark says, tone not betraying the twitching of their lips that Carlos can _see _out of the corner of his eyes. 'I didn't realise you two had met.'

'We met the day we arrived in town, after the speech I had to give.' Carlos mutters and then, realising he has dug his own grave and may as well lay in it, 'He gave me his number.'

'Of course the besotted radio host rides a bike.' The team of scientists have become attuned to the sound of Mishti rolling her eyes, 'All the better to stalk you with, my _perfect Carlos_.' 

The wriggling thing in Carlos' stomach goes rigid, like it has grown teeth. Because, sure, it is _mortifying _to hear himself talked about on the radio. But the mooning compliments and soft sighs are clearly a joke. Carlos just wishes that he could be let in on the punchline.

It would also be nice for his internal organs to keep functioning normally when it happens, or Cecil laughs, or, it turns out, rides past him on his bicycle. When they met he hadn't seemed like the stalker type. If anything, he had seemed . . . well, not normal, butnice_. _Weird. Intense. But _nice_. 

An inhuman screeching from above the car makes the scientists jump in their seats. 

And Carlos doesn't think about bicycles, or Cecil, for at least the rest of the afternoon. 

🚲

Cycling is good for you.

Carlos sometimes finds it comforting to reiterate facts to himself that he knows to be true. It is even more comforting when the facts remain true now he's in Night Vale. Cycling is good for you. Cycling is also good for the environment. Cycling is much cheaper than owning a car, even despite the worrying low prices for gas in town.

Carlos used to commute to and from University during his doctorate on a rusty plum-coloured affair that did nothing to convince the rest of the lab that he wasn't gay. He'd liked it though. Cycling _is _good for you. 

Which begs the question, why don't more Night Vale residents ride bikes? Carlos and his team of scientists have been in town for several weeks now and, still, Cecil is the only person he has seen on a bike. Cecil's bike is the only bike he has seen at all. 

So Carlos finds himself pushing open the squeaky door of Jackie's Pawn Shop, after waking that morning with its address sitting firmly on the tip of his tongue. It tasted the way ancient dust smells. He allows himself a cursory browse of the shelves, looking for anything that might be scientifically interesting. Bizarrely, everything appears to cost $11. 

'I wouldn't.' A confident voice warns. Carlos jerks his hand back from a glass vial which appears to contain an actual, actively raining, thunderstorm. There's a teenager leaning idly against a shelving unit. Something about her stare makes Carlos want to shove his hands in his pockets. 'Can I help you?' She asks. And then, 'You're that scientist guy.'

Lots of people around town know Carlos as 'that scientist guy'. _Thank you, Cecil._ He supposes he should be grateful that people don't open with 'Hey, let me touch your perfect hair' or 'Oi, let me stroke your delicate skin'. He shudders a little at the thought. 

'Uh, yeah. I am.' A low groaning sound, the sound a large mammal might make during a mating ritual, comes from the next shelf over. Carlos decides he can cope without knowing. 'Do you have any bikes for sale?' 

'Bikes?' The teenager, who Carlos has decided must be Jackie, hisses. 

'Yeah, bikes? Bicycles?' 

'You can't buy that here!' Her authoritative voice takes on a note of panic that Carlos feels in the hairs on the back of his neck. 'Please, if that's all you want, leave.' 

'I-?' 

It is only when the door squeaks shut behind Carlos that he realises Jackie meant '_here_' as in Night Vale, not '_here_ in my pawn shop'. You can't buy a bike in all of Night Vale. Carlos ponders this as he marches back to the lab.

He thinks about going back to the shop to question Jackie a little more but he can't remember the address. 

🚲

Carlos' foot taps an unrepentant beat against the vinyl car mat in his footwell.

Today, the traffic is slow. The science is slow. The small fly that has been flying lazily around the interior of his car since he had stopped to have that conversation with - _who was it now? _\- is slow.

His mind isn't.

He's replaying tiny scenes from his not-date with Cecil three days prior. Snippets and snapshots of earnest, violet eyes and a chin resting gently on a pair of pale hands as the radio host leant forwards to absorb himself in what Carlos had to say. Then, a flicker of a frown. A memory of a brown ring along the inside of the coffee cup during the five minute interlude where Carlos didn't look at Cecil at all.

He hadn't intended to be rude. In fact, he'd intended on being overly polite. Cecil had gushed into his microphone about how their meeting was a date and, even though the thought privately weakened Carlos' knees, he knew he needed to set some boundaries. He had science to think about. And a team of overly protective scientists who thought it might be a good idea to create some distance between himself and the Voice of Night Vale whilst still, hopefully, keeping him as a useful contact in times of need.

Instead, Carlos had rambled on for minutes at a time about the rife scientific inconsistencies between Night Vale and the rest of the USA, as if he could drown out the arrogant racing of his pulse in his ears. Cecil said such charming things. Cecil assured him that was _very_ into science. Cecil's eyes sparkled like the wet stone walls of a long-forgotten cave under torchlight when he flirted. Carlos plodded on monotonously with his lecture on seismology and watched that shimmer fade as though something in the cave had shifted and the torch-bearer was making a hasty retreat. He wasn't surprised to hear no mention of his name on the radio in the following days. It was probably for the best. Even if Cecil's voice still sent something warm and crawling down his spine and he still checked his wing mirrors too frequently for a blur of bike wheels and a soft, parted mouth drinking in the wind.

There's the angry pip of a car horn and Carlos jumps, tapping foot losing rhythm and feeling around for the pedals. He quickly realises that the traffic hasn't actually started moving - that would be too convenient - but a person has appeared from nowhere at the side of the road, gesturing angrily at a Mini Cooper.

He has a bike.

Carlos is flicking on his indicators and pulling over to the side of the road before he finishes considering the action. Something in the hot, swollen stasis of the afternoon has been broken by the man in the cool, blue shirt with the spots of pink high on his cheekbones. The heat of the afternoon is like a physical weight against his body as he steps out of the car. He has no idea how Cecil can stand to cycle in it.

'Carlos?' He has one hand on his bike, the other drops to his side from where it had been pointing at the driver of the Mini. A smile, slow and hopeful, slides across his mouth. Carlos fights the urge to fix his hair. He just needs to say one sentence. Something friendly. Something helpful. This could be the start of a chain reaction but it requires a thermodynamic nudge to get started and it has to come from Carlos. He just needs to say _something_.

'I think you have the only bike in Night Vale.'

The pair stare at each other. Carlos feels a rush of breath leave his lungs like a silent scream, lost under the mechanical purr of engines starting back up as the traffic starts moving again.

'Uhh.' If Carlos thought his mind was racing before, it's nothing compared to this. He's remembering their coffee date again, and how awful he had been, and he's fixated on how nice Cecil's arms look with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up just so, and he's so completely and utterly baffled at how there can be only _one _bicycle in the entirety of this small, strange town, and he's thinking _how can you have ruined it already, Carlos?_ None of it is very helpful. Cecil's smile fades as he looks down at his bike. Carlos notices, finally, that the front wheel has buckled slightly, appearing as off-kilter under Cecil's gaze as Carlos feels.

'Well, I _did_.' The radio host grumbles, kicking at the broken wheel a little petulantly. Carlos bites the inside of his lip. Cecil doesn't owe it to him to be charming and friendly all the time - especially after what transpired at the coffee shop - but it seems unlike him to act out, especially when Carlos has stopped to help. _Oh_.

'Let me help you.' He says in a rush. 'Where were you heading? I can drive you.'

'Oh.' Cecil looks at his bike and back at Carlos and then back at his bike. 'I couldn't possibly -' There's a blush diffusing downwards from Cecil's cheeks and Carlos wants to crowd closer, to examine it through a magnifying glass and determine just how far it spreads. He sighs, 'I was on my way to my niece's basketball game.' Cecil rubs his face with his hands and Carlos uses this opportunity to step forwards. He didn't even know Cecil had a niece. He tries to ignore the sinking sensation in his gut that comes with the realisation that he doesn't really know Cecil at all. 'But I'm going to be late because of stupid Susan Willman and that disaster of a car!' Carlos rests his hand on the bike's handlebars, barely an inch away from Cecil's, the metal hot in the desert sun.

The only bike in Night Vale.

'I can drive you.' He repeats, because he's really on a roll with uttering full sentences that are simultaneously scientifically correct and helpful.

'My bike-'

'Ooh! I can fix it for you! I'll drop you off and take it back to the lab with me and drop it round later.' And, if the bike were to be _studied _while it was in Carlos' lab, what of it? He watches Cecil hover over the decision, pre-emptive disappointment in the clench of his molars. Because, if Cecil said no, Cecil who purportedly fell in love at first sight, that would be a clear sign that the small flame between them had already been snuffed out.

Carlos isn't quite ready to watch the smoke curl. He adjusts his grip on the handle bars, allowing the sensitive skin on the side of his hand to brush against the other man's thumb. He meets Cecil's conflicted violet eyes and hopes that he is conveying something unyielding rather than desperate with his.

Cecil relents with a twitch of his lips.

🚲

Carlos rocks backwards and forwards on his heels. The hem of his lab coat brushes against his calves. He can feel what he once would have called a 5 o'clock shadow on his chin as he rubs it contemplatively.

The bike - wheel mended, chain oiled, brakes checked and checked again - is normal.

It's just _so normal_.

Carlos scribbles a note into his scientific journal and lets out a low, pondering hum. Maybe that will cause the bike to give up its secrets. He lets his fingers rest in the worn patches on the handlebars.

'So, before you completely take my bike apart,' Cecil's voice had been sly, borderline cheeky, in the closeness of the car. Carlos glanced at him, a guilty rabbit caught in a farmer's field. 'It was given to me by Station Management when I started on the show and I'm pretty sure it's more of a company bike than my bike. Soo. . .' Carlos grinned and thought he heard a little noise come from Cecil's throat.

'That's so amazing! The only bike in Night Vale!'

'Well, they could have given me a car . . .' Cecil groused but there was a thread of humour underneath it that Carlos wouldn't have minded getting tangled in.

He's just letting out another louder, even more pondering hum as the door swings open and Mark's head appears. Carlos drops his hands from the bike as though he's been burned.

'Thought I'd find you in here.' Mark smirks slightly as they make their way over. They're holding out two metal cylinders, like silver apple corers, which glint in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the lab. 'Here.' Carlos takes them, face twisted in confusion. Closer examination reveals that they are made of a lightweight but sturdy metal alloy, open at one end and with a closed attachment at the other. The sight of them stirs a memory from childhood but . . . It can't be.

'Are these-?'

'Bike pegs.' Carlos feels his cheeks heat. He thinks he should say something but his brain short-circuits as he imagines the feeling of the wind in his hair, his fingers gripping tight onto Cecil's shoulders. Mark laughs and pats the seat of the bike in lieu of cuffing Carlos in the arm. 'Never say I don't make anything nice for you!'

Cecil answers the door in a swirl of silk, clapping his hands together delightedly as he takes in his newly mended bike. Carlos tries not to be nosy - but there's a painting on the wall in the entrance to the apartment that seems to shift and spiral in Carlos's peripheral visual and a garish rug and a houseplant with fangs - and fails.

'Thank you so much, _Carlos.' _Cecil says his name the way someone might cup another's face before kissing them: intimate and tender and attention-grabbing.

'I- um - well - it was really our engineer who fixed it and I just kind of checked it was working properly afterwards and if I could detect anything scientifically unique about it but really, it's not me you should thank. I - uh - you're welcome.' He rolls the bike forward into Cecil's hands before he can continue talking. Any further words die in his throat anyway as Cecil lifts the entire frame and hooks it onto a rack on the wall in one smooth movement. Though Carlos may consider himself too old to derive any sort of pleasure from imagining being _carried _by another person, it doesn't stop it from happening. It would appear that Cecil is deceptively strong. He blinks.

'In that case, please pass on my thanks to the appropriate members of your team.' Cecil's tone is sincere enough but the crow's feet by his eyes betray his mirth. 'So, anything scientifically interesting about my bike?' He twists to lean on the open door.

Carlos' heart is pounding as he replies: 'Technically, your bike is the most scientifically interesting bike in Night Vale by default.' He thinks about the grooves in Cecil's handlebars, the blood-orange dusting of sand on the tyres, the whir of the wheels and the light squeak of the brakes. He smiles. 'So, yes.'

There's a flighty, hopping feeling in Carlos' chest urging him to flee now that things appear to be patched up with Cecil. The other man wets his lips with a flash of pink tongue. 'Would you like to come in? I just poured some Armagnac if you fancy a glass?'

Carlos bites his own lip. He couldn't. Could he? No. He shouldn't.

'It's fine!' Cecil answers for him, one hand on the door frame in an attempt at looking casual. It is difficult to muster a casual look when one is robed like an Egyptian queen and Carlos' heart sinks. 'It's late, you're busy. It's - fine.'

'Sorry.' Carlos says, unsure how he's managing to produce an awkward atmosphere when he's declining to extend their encounter to avoid just that. 'I should-' He gestures over his shoulder, '- Science. I should -'

'Of course, you should get back to the lab. I'm sure you have so much interesting science to get back to!'

Carlos suspects that there's some kind of subtlety in that sentence that he's meant to pick up on, but Cecil's voice is bright and it makes his shoulders sag in relief as he puts his hands in his pockets. His left hand lands on two metal cylinders and he yelps in surprise.

'Carlos!' Cecil is already out of the door, hands reaching. He stops suddenly when Carlos produces the bike pegs. His pale eyebrows furrow. 'Carlos?'

'I-' He clears his throat. Mark had given him clear instructions to lie and say that the bike pegs were all his idea. 'I forgot that I got these for you.' He presses them into Cecil's warm hands. The perplexed angulation of Cecil's eyebrows is unmoved. 'They're bike pegs. You put them on the back wheel.' Carlos is starting to suspect that this was an evil plot by his colleagues to embarrass him. 'So you can take a passenger. In case you ever, you know, wanted or needed to take a passenger. Um, they can stand on the back of your bike when you cycle. Or, even, someone could cycle and you could stand on the back. Sorry -'

Cecil pulls the bike pegs in to his chest before Carlos can take them back. That lovely blush has returned.

'A passenger, huh?' Carlos feels his own face heats up as he nods. He's expecting the radio host to say something flirtatious to test the strength of his knee ligaments but Cecil looks honestly a little flustered. It makes something dark and possessive curl around Carlos' stomach to see him like this. 'That's very generous, thank you, Carlos!' He squeaks.

'You're welcome!' Carlos is sweating. This is ridiculous. 'Good night, Cecil.'

'Good night, Carlos.'

🚲

'I don't know.'

'You must know.'

'Well, I don't.'

'You must have some idea.'

'I don't-'

'Mish-!'

'It's too hot to think, stop trying to make me think!'

Carlos keeps his eyes on the road. He's imagining just how good it's going to be to get into a cold shower the minute they get back. Provided that their most recent algae samples haven't grown legs and that the FOG is still trapped in the fume cupboard, then he could probably get away with a five minute wash. A five minute break from his squabbling colleagues would be ideal. The car is overtaken by a dark shape which swerves into their lane. The rhythmic pedalling motion draws Carlos right out of his cold water fantasy. Cecil is wearing a black tank top and his tattoos spill out across his shoulders and down his lightly muscled arms. Carlos swallows, suddenly parched. He doesn't notice that Mark and Mishti have stopped grouching at one another.

The silver cylinders affixed to the back wheel wink in the light.

Cecil turns, just quickly, before speeding off again, weaving through the traffic as though the cars were little more than a moving slalom. He was clearly checking for danger over his shoulder, Carlos tells himself. But that conclusion doesn't quite explain why their eyes met. Or the glint of Cecil's teeth in his grin.

🚲

The headlights carve out their route through the dark streets, bouncing off parked cars and road signs and the mysterious creeping shapes ahead that wince away from the light. A breeze slips through the cracked open window, and the car smells like the night, like a double espresso taken intravenously after the oppressive closeness of the afternoon. The scientists in the car are deep in discussion.

'So, France, yes? Germany. Switzerland. Spain. Greece?'

'Belgium!'

'Ooh, yeah. Carlos?'

'I don't know!' He laughs humourlessly, still prickling at the image of a young Cecil Palmer and a boy with grey, ashy skin. 'I'm a scientist, not a map-maker!'

'I just think that three highly-educated people should be able to say whether Luftnarp is a real country or not!' Mishti throws up her hands in the passenger seat. 'Sometimes I think that this whole town is an elaborate practical joke.' Even Carlos can catch the dark note in her voice. He doesn't think she's going to stay in Night Vale much longer. He doesn't know what he's going to do about that. They slow to a stop in the red glare of a set of traffic lights and Mark groans as they realise where they are.

There's a set of traffic lights in Night Vale widely known to be the slowest-changing lights in the world. Time doesn't work in Night Vale, but Carlos is pretty sure that they were on red for at least 4 hours the last time he came down this road.

'Ugh, sorry.' He moans, 'I got distracted.' Mark pats the back of his chair.

'We know.'

Mishti sighs. 'Nothing comes up on Google when you search Luftnarp.'

Carlos catches Mark's grin in the rear-view mirror. 'Why don't you just ask him yourself?'

And sure enough, Carlos can see the steady pulsing of bike lights as The Voice of Night Vale approaches from behind. The brakes still squeak a little as he slows to a stop at the traffic lights.

Carlos used to commute to University on his bike. He dimly remembers that there were always different types of cyclists and that the differences often manifested themselves most obviously through red light etiquette. And, of course, Cecil Palmer is one of the showy wankers who refuses to put a foot down and fully stop. Carlos watches him, standing out of his saddle, grip tight on the handle bars as he adjusts the front wheel constantly and minutely to keep his balance. Cecil is wearing tight, burgundy trousers today and Carlos is finding it very difficult not to focus on the way the material clings to the radio host's ass. Very difficult. He suddenly, guiltily, finds that he wouldn't mind that much if the traffic lights stayed red for a while. He's in no rush, really.

A sliding mechanical sound heralds the opening of the window on the passenger side.

'Mish-!' He starts.

'Hey!' She calls, 'Hey, Cecil!'

The man on the bike loses his balance a little and lands heavily on one foot. He turns and squints into the beam of the headlights, hair unnaturally white and beautifully tousled by the wind. Carlos likes to think that Cecil recognised his car. But he clearly doesn't recognise the woman poking her head out of it.

'Can I help you?' He asks. His voice is, perhaps, a little rougher than it had been at the start of his radio show. Carlos hisses something admonishing and is thoroughly ignored by his colleague.

'Hi, yeah!' She reaches up to flick on the light inside the car and the white-coated occupants are thrust into view. Carlos thinks he really might have to lay down a firm law about Mark and Mishti touching the controls in his car. The Voice of Night Vale wheels his bike around until he is parallel with Mishti's open window. 'We,' She gestures mainly to Carlos, 'Were just listening to your show and we've never heard of any of the places you visited.' Carlos inspects the dust on his dashboard but he can feel the weight of Cecil's gaze on his face. He is jolted suddenly as Mark kicks the back of his chair.

'Oh?'

One of the things that makes Mishti such a great scientist is that she gets straight to the root of a problem and solves it directly. It can, however, make for awkward conversation.

'Are they real?'

'The places?' Cecil seems to remember he has hair and smooths it out with his fingers.

'Yeah.'

He smiles but his pale eyes are confused, 'I mean, as real as Night Vale is, right?' The scientists exchange quick, uneasy glances. Carlos looks at his hands, unable to cope with the milky expanse of Cecil's neck without wondering what it would look like covered in the marks of a boy with a cartoonishly large mouth.

'How's the bike, Cecil?' Mark asks from the back. The radio host beams and pats his handlebars lovingly.

'Oh, better than ever! Thank you, Carlos.'

'Npf-' Carlos stutters before coughing loudly, 'No problem.' He wheezes. When he forces himself to meet Cecil's gaze he finds something hot there and it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up even as he winces internally at how inappropriate this is in front of his colleagues.

The street is bathed briefly in amber and then green.

'You should go!' Cecil's smile is reluctant, 'They change back faster if they think you're not paying attention.'

'Is that not a problem for you as well?' Mishti asks.

'Oh, no. I actually have stop sign immunity which also applies to red lights soooo . . .'

Carlos catches the delighted inhalation of a scientist who is about to probe for the answer to a difficult question. 'Why did you stop then?' She asks, almost leaning out of the car and grinning like a shark.

'IIII-' Cecil trails off musically. It's too dark to tell whether or not he's blushing but Carlos watches the way he inhales fully, as though a lungful of air might carry him and his bike upwards and away from this awkwardness. There's a metallic clicking as Cecil sets his pedals. 'I should be going. Good night!'

'Good night, Cecil.' Mishti calls as Cecil sets off rapidly, hips swaying as he pedals out of the saddle, tight trousers still working their magic. Carlos throws the car into gear.

'Don't say _anything_.' He threatens.

It doesn't work. 

🚲

Carlos often needs to retire to a quiet place and think about complex social interactions thoroughly in order to fully get a handle on them. But he knows when he is being taunted.

Last week, the only bike in Night Vale and its rider swerved rapidly around his car. So quickly that Carlos couldn't understand just what had gone racing past until Cecil decided to slow right down in front of him. He pedalled at a snail's pace, staunchly not checking over his shoulder to see how Carlos was reacting. Which, in fairness, was a blessing as Carlos was alone in the car and so was taking the opportunity to enjoy the view without any sniggering from the passenger seat.

Cecil had pulled his traffic light trick three times in the last few days, showing off his long frame and, even better, his skill at riding. Carlos wondered who had taught him how to ride so well when there's only one bike in all of town. He wondered if he and Cecil were uniquely talented in their ability to stay upright on two wheels.

Today, Carlos and Mark are on their way to the bowling alley. They want to meet Teddy Williams and persuade him to let them put a few seismometers around the place but Carlos is wrestling the uneasy feeling that Williams is actually slightly insane and may be resistant to scientific reasoning. He sighs and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He usually has very little time for people who are resistant to scientific reasoning. Someone in a silver SUV cuts him up at the traffic lights and he brakes hard and sighs again as the lights turn red.

'Asshole.' Mark tuts. Carlos hums an agreement.

There's a sudden thump on the roof from the passenger side of the car. The scientists freeze in shock, remembering the pterodactyls and The Surprising Hail, but when Carlos looks out of the window he sees a radio host on a bike, propping himself up on the sleek lines of the coupe. He almost laughs. Mark winds down the window.

'He'll run you over.'

From his vantage point on the driver's side of the car, Carlos cannot see Cecil's face, but he can hear his rich laugh as it pours through the open window. He imagines it pooling in the foot well. That must be why his toes curl at the sound.

'Run me over?' Cecil repeats, 'Without even buying me dinner first?'

It's here that Carlos realises that the line between taunting a flirting is rather thin.

🚲

If coffee is best drunk while smirking, a mug of herbal tea should be blushed around and smiled fondly into. Carlos listens to the radio and does just that.

_Ooh! Oh, listeners, Intern Dana has just brought in a parcel and is gesturing for me to open it right now. _

_I hope this isn’t going to be another box of spiders, Dana. Dana? Fine. _

_I’m unboxing it - Oh. Oh. _

_It’s a helmet._

_Like one a skateboarder or professional skooterist might use. _

_Iiiiiii _think _I know who this is from because there's a note that reads: wearing a helmet is scientifically proven to reduce the risk of injury and death when cycling. Listeners . . . Carlos the Scientist bought a helmet for _**_me_**_! He doesn't want me to get injured, or die! _

_I'm- I'm gonna try this on one second while you listen to this message from our sponsors._

_Dana! Hey, Dana, do I look cute? _

🚲

Carlos glances in the wing mirror as he slows to a stop at the lights. A grin spreads across his face and he pre-emptively rolls down the window as a man on a bike, the Voice of Night Vale, Cecil Palmer, his _boyfriend, _freewheels to a stop on the driver’s side.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Cecil smirks, looking rather cute in his helmet. Carlos’s grin widens and he reaches out a hand into the blazing desert sun to rest it gently on Cecil’s legging-clad thigh. The man suffuses with pink as he squeezes gently.

He loves this town where he can lean out of his car to touch his boyfriend in the middle of the day without some bigot trying to run them over. He loves living in this place where it seems that the whole town is invested in their relationship working out (thank you, Cecil). Where he doesn’t have to pretend a pink bike is his sister’s. He loves having a boyfriend with thighs like _that_. 

He rubs his thumb once, twice, over the silky material of Cecil’s leggings and lets go reluctantly. Cecil looks at him and it’s hotter than the sun on his skin. And, hopefully, less carcinogenic.

‘My place?’ Cecil suggests quietly, the carefully nonchalant tilt to his chin a memory of Carlos’ numerous rejections in the past.

‘Race you!’

🚲

'I'm not sure about this.' Cecil looks at the still-shiny silver additions to his bicycle distrustfully. Carlos, a little tipsy on the cheap stuff, has never been more sure of anything in his life.

'It'll be fine!' He reaches out to squeeze Cecil's arm. They're a few weeks into their relationship and even almost-platonic gestures of physical affection are still scary and delightful. 'I'll hold on really tight.' Cecil looks like a man caught as the tides turn.

'We could just walk, Carlos, it's not far.'

Carlos smiles, squeezes Cecil's bicep again, 'We'll get there faster if we cycle . . .'

Night Vale manages to be dark and mysterious even under the glare of the midday sun. But there is definitely something to be said for the still of the Old Town at night, the way the glow of the city lights gets eaten by the close crowding of the older buildings. It's a beautiful part of town. Carlos hadn't been lying when he'd complimented Cecil's shingles.

He's standing on the back of Cecil's bike, arms wrapped around the radio host's neck, drinking in the cool night air. When he looks to the side he can see their silhouette and the way his lab coat floats behind them like a superhero's cape. A bubbling euphoria spills out of him in a manic laugh that Cecil echoes.

They take a corner sharply and Carlos squeezes Cecil tighter than necessary. He appreciates the irony of clinging onto his boyfriend's shoulders like a blushing teenager when, barely an hour ago, he'd delicately explained to Cecil his sizeable aversion to being petted and squeezed, especially in public, _especially _when trying to concentrate. He decides to put the guilty feeling down for later and just enjoy the ride. Cecil doesn't seem to mind.

'Ready, Carlos?' Cecil shouts. Carlos barely has time to register the words before they're flying down a hill. They defy the stillness of the night air, rushing through it and creating a current that stirs up the dust and runs its fingers through Carlos' curls. He lets out a delighted _wahooooo_ as they whizz past darkened shop fronts and the cosy yellow checkerboards of apartment buildings in which only a few occupants are awake.

Carlos remembers that Cecil's apartment is back up another hill. He had once stalled his car on it when he'd spotted Cecil's graceful frame on the pavement nearby. He liked to think he'd progressed since then.

Cecil has to stand up in the saddle to make it up the hill with the extra weight on the back. Carlos fancies the idea of letting his hands slide south to feel the way Cecil's muscles moves as he pedals. It's a distracting thought and Carlos nearly unbalances as Cecil sits back down, slowly braking to a gentle halt outside the door to his apartment building. He wishes that the ride could be longer just as much as he wants to already be naked in Cecil's bedroom.

'You're so fit.' Carlos comments as he watches the way Cecil rests the frame of his bike over his shoulder with ease as they climb the stairs to Cecil's apartment. He cringes internally as he realises what he's just said.

Cecil's voice is like melted chocolate. 'You're not so bad yourself.'

'Noo, I meant, like, physically.'

'Mhm. Me too.' The playful smirk thrown over Cecil's shoulder only contributes to the scientist's blush.

'_Cecil_. I mean, you have a really good aerobic capacity and - um - you're very strong.' They pause outside Cecil's door and the radio host pauses before pricking his finger to open the bloodstone. He's still smirking but Carlos can see his nervousness in the way he's holding himself back from leaning forwards for a kiss, the way his hands fiddle with the bottom of his tank top instead of reaching for Carlos'. The bike ride has sobered him up a little, but Carlos finds he still has enough liquid courage to close the space between them and kiss his boyfriend gently on the lips. 'Thanks for the lift.' He says as he pulls back. Cecil's smile twists from blissful to knowing.

'Sometimes, I think you only like me for my bicycle, Carlos the Scientist.' He whispers.

'Your bike is _very _scientifically interesting.'

'Oh, yeah?'

'_Oh, yeah_.'

'Well, why don't you come in and tell me just how interesting?' Cecil's leaning forward now, forehead brushing against Carlos', and the scientist has to take a second to adjust to the excitement of just how dilated Cecil's pupils are and to the offer of science talk. He opens his mouth to spill forth the words _cogs, angular velocity _and _biomechanics_ before he realises that he's meant to be flirting. And Cecil wants to have sex with him.

Cecil's lips are just _right there_ so Carlos kisses him until they're panting, quiet and desperate in the draughty corridor.

'Why don't you show me just how good your aerobic capacity is?'

Cecil is still sniggering as he pricks the side of his hand to open the door and wheels his bike inside. To Carlos, the metallic ticking of the slowly turning wheel sounds like success.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for reading!  
I tried to write something cute and happy and I also am very intrigued about Cecil's bike in canon - like does he actually have one or not? Just how thirsty does it make Carlos?? Anyway, I really hope it made you smile!! 
> 
> I'm currently 3/4 of the way through another story but I think I really need to take a break from writing - at least until my first set of exams are over in mid-December. It's really shit because I have a few ideas that I'd really like to write and, because this fandom doesn't have that many people actively writing at the moment, I feel this weird responsibility to keep posting stuff in the hope that it will motivate other people to write so we all get to read great fic. Does anyone else get that?? Either way, I know that I'm not currently studying hard enough and spending all my time writing fic isn't helping! Thanks so much to the people who have been reading my stories so far, it's been really, _really_ lovely to have your support in rediscovering how much I love writing! I hope to be posting again sometime soon!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the only bike in night vale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436087) by [treeprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeprince/pseuds/treeprince)


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